Far and Beyond: From Kiri to Greatness!
by IrritableTree
Summary: A young shinobi-in-training decides it’s time for him to take the adventure of a lifetime. He has his hair gel packed and his trusty ninja alligator in tow. He’s like, eleven, so he can definitely handle this. The two truck drivers whose cab he stows away in, however, are not so sure they can handle this.
1. Gator Pits and Solid Hits!

_The Bloody Mist, over a decade after the Fourth Great War, has bloomed. Unrecognizable from the bloody home of the Seven Swordsman, it is a city coming to terms with its violent past while embracing its vibrant future. Much like Konoha was before the Third and Fourth Wars, Kiri has become a haven for branches of major clans seeking to establish footholds abroad. One such clan, the Shimizu, have done this in an... unconventional way._

Walking into the greenhouse is like hitting a permeable membrane of armpit. In the sense that it's hot and moist, not that it smells like armpit. Actually, it smells like alligator poop mixed with decomposing plant matter. Wakame doesn't mind the green, intensely loamy scent, though. It smells like home.

Sounds of gentle sloshing and large, scaled bodies pushing themselves through soil echoed through the thick air. Wakame strolled along the familiar network of boardwalks that crisscrossed over the expanse of the greenhouse. The family always called it the greenhouse, but it was in reality a highly maintained biome which offered comfort and ideal shelter to the Shimizu clan's specialized species of alligator. Shimizu gators were heartier and smarter than than their non-ninja counterparts. They grew faster and with strongly-imprinted human bonds. This characteristic had been somewhat bred into the species, but their size and temperament allowed for effective use in the clan's ninja work. Though they could survive in the colder climate of Kirigakure, the native climate for both the animals and the Shimizu clan was considerably warmer, hence the greenhouse. The biome kept the alligators comfortable when they weren't actively training or on missions, and Wakame loved strolling through to greet the various members of his scalier, sharp-toothed family.

Most of the gators were quite large, as they belonged to older relatives, but the sizes ranged from the length of Wakame's palm to three times as long as his father was tall. Crazy stuff when he thought about it. No wonder some people were freaked out by the clan if they didn't know the Shimizu legacy. To its credit, the clan had taken a considerable role in disbursing irrational fear of the large reptiles— though healthy caution _was_ important. His parents especially offered tours and demonstrations at the clan compound to Kiri natives and tourists alike when they weren't on duty. His dad said that the Mist used to be a terrible place to live, but it had really come into its own after the Fourth Great Ninja War. That's when the clan had started taking advantage of the extensive water access and blooming economy. Kiri was a big tourist hotspot these days, and so the Shimizu Gator Park was a big hit with folks visiting from places like Konoha or Suna, where alligators— let alone highly trained ones— simply didn't exist. He was pretty sure alligators weren't anywhere in the desert, at least, unless they were in a river or something.

A significantly smaller swishing _plooplooploop_ sound zigzagged under the boardwalk directly beneath his feet. The smack of a tail sounded on the surface of the water as his nin-gator slipped from under the cover of the boardwalk's shadow and gazed at Wakame expectantly. He stooped to lower a gloved handful of raw chicken to the growing alligator.

"What's up, sister, how've you been?" Wakame tossed the chicken towards his friend and grinned when the little gator's jaws snapped shut around the food. The little gal wasn't much longer than three feet— miniscule by clan standards— and was already showing promise.

Geta would soon be the strongest and best nin-gator in the whole clan if Wakame had anything to do with it. He make sure she got all the fresh meat she needed, plus a little extra— and no, he wasn't spoiling her, _Mom_ — as well as medical attention and carefully monitoring her muscle growth, and soon the gator would be able to start training with him full time. That would make him a real Shimizu gator-nin, something that, even though he was barely in real training only a few years into the Academy, he was intensely proud of.

Anyone who had the pleasure of meeting the sharp-toothed young boy heard about it. He was going to be a famous gator ninja, and he would travel to all the different villages, and meet all of the clans who trained animals, especially reptiles, and he was going to see a big shark in real life. He told these eternal truths to anyone who would listen. His parents, his cousins, the waitstaff at his granny's restaurant, the two men who delivered fresh mulch, produce, and dry goods once a month. Everyone. Few people tired of it, though. Wakame was enthusiastically helpful and bred with the responsibility of a young ninja animal trainer. He was by all accounts, a pretty good kid, although his mischievousness occasionally got the better of him, but c'mon, he might not be a prodigy but he was a solid student who was willing to push himself to any lengths to be the best that he could be—

"HEY, NERD!" A shockingly loud voice crashed through the greenhouse, ripping Wakame from his thoughts. The voice didn't come soon enough to save him from stepping straight off the end of the boardwalk though. Wakame flopped face first into the shallow pool holding the large juvenile alligators. Sputtering, he hauled himself from the water towards the mulched patch of damp earth near the edge of the pool. He heard devilish, wheezing laughter that gave away his older brother.

"Hijiki!" Wakame stood like a drenched snow angel, arms and legs spread out to avoid too much contact with his sopping clothes.

He gaped at Hijiki accusingly, and the teenager put his hands up in defense, still trying to catch his breath, "I-i swear, I didn't know you were gonna fall, I'm sorry, but that's the funniest damn thing I've seen in weeks."

Wakame grimaced. Jerkface, he'd get him back, "Hey, Hijiki?"

"What?" He said through subsiding giggles.

"Shut up."

The older, long-haired boy rolled his eyes, clapping a well-meaning hand on his brother's back, "Go change, dude, before Mom sees."

"Ugh," Wakame looked down at his soaked clothing: thick striped linen, a common Kiri fabric, and a lightweight green t-shirt which was now sticking to him in all the worst ways, "yeah okay."

He hobbled off towards the exit, offering his little friend, Geta, some more raw chicken on the way out in apology for their time being cut short.

 _Enter The Pit_

"What's that?" The tiny three year old asked from his place atop the kitchen counter of Grandma Shimizu's Gator Pit Grill, as two men carried in crates from their large box truck outside.

"Paper towels." The taller of the two replied.

The baby's chubby arm moved to another stack of boxes by the entrance to the food storage room at the back of the kitchen, "What's that?" He asked, ever more demanding.

"Onions."

"Un-uns," the young child parroted with an exuberant giggle.

The shorter man, dark hair graying at the temples and thick glasses magnifying smiling eyes, offered a small wave to the baby before turning on his heel to retrieve more boxes.

Wakame passed the man as he stepped through the door. The boy smiled at his little cousin on the countertop and set a large bag of flour on the ground. Shipment days were some of his favorites. Everything smelled like earth and food, and he picked the truck men's brains for stories about where they had been in the last month. Sometimes they would bring candy from other villages, and Granny always let them stay for dinner. The woman herself was buzzing around the restaurant, directing where certain crates should go and busying herself with sorting through the fresh produce.

Nameko Shimizu, at fifty seven, considered herself to be in the prime of her life. She took pride her her clan, her family, but most of all her restaurant. Grandma Shimizu's Gator Pit was not just a place to eat, but her life's work, and had become somewhat of a cultural phenomenon in Kiri. Over the years, the compound had gained renown for being a popular destination for tourists and school groups. The restaurant itself offered hearty meals to those who made the trek out, and, not that Nameko was bragging, but the food was damn good.

The restaurant had also been vitally important in offering the clan some alternative to entering Kiri's shinobi forces. Shinobi could be noble, sure, and it made up the majority of her relatives' occupations. But she was a civilian who'd married into the clan, and she considered it a feat of excellence on her part that she ensured military service was not obligatory to Shimizu children. She'd lived through her husband and sons' enlistment in grand armies for multiple wars. She'd seen the great, stinking head of violence rearing its way through her loved ones, and she'd throw herself into her own wood fire before she saw another child forced into shinobi life. Young people deserved an alternative, and the restaurant ensured a vibrant starting place for Shimizu youth in the hospitality and food industry. Still, many of her own grandchildren joined the Academy without hesitation. Her stress was at least lessened by the relative peace after the Fourth War.

Nameko watched her two grandchildren, one acquainting himself with every item that passed through the door with an emphatic, "What's that?" The other bustling about with the delivery men, lifting boxes only just too heavy for his growing arms and waving off the older of the two men when he commented on the shade of red Wakame's face was becoming from exertion. She was fond of the delivery men, not simply because they refused to charge unreasonable merchant taxes on bulk goods, but because of how patient they were with her family. The restaurant was often busy with a handful of small Shimizus, and Wakame was usually chomping at the bit to get information out of the men about their travels. They never snapped, never chided, and were always willing to let the kids participate, even if all they could do was "guard" the sacks of rice. For their kindness, and efficiency, Nameko kept them on, and always made sure to send them away with some tip money and full stomachs.

She eyed the taller of the two men as he brought in what looked to be the last crate from the truck parked outside, "Same-san?"

He pushed a stray lock of hair back up into the vertically oriented mess atop his head— Nameko would love to know how he got his hair to do that, and how Wakame had managed to recreate the look.

"Yes ma'am?" The man had a deep, somewhat grating voice, as though he'd spent many of his younger years screaming too loudly. His face at rest had the stern and unrelenting aura of his clan— the Hoshigaki.

There was virtually no doubt whatever about his lineage, and he made no effort to hide his appearance. He also made no effort to speak about the clan, so Nameko never asked. She wasn't into prying for information. Despite his intimidating appearance, the guy was much sweeter than any older Hoshigaki clan member she'd known— and judging by his age, he was old enough to remember the nastiness of the Bloody Mist for sure— but then again, she didn't pry.

"You fellas stayin' for dinner tonight?"

The large sharkish man grinned, full of pointed teeth, and scratched the back of his head, "If that's alright with you, sure! We love your cooking. Of course, we wouldn't want to impose, though, and I hope you don't only offer on our account—"

Nameko tutted dismissively, "You don't know what's good for you, son, you both need a hot meal every once in a while," she scooped her youngest grandson off the countertop and plopped him on her hip, turning back to him, "I know there's no stove in the cab of that truck."

"You'd be right about that, ma'am." The other truck driver pitched from his place near the cold storage, unloading several bags of fruit from a wheeling cart.

"Yeah _I know_." Nameko scoffed fondly, "So no arguments. We're gonna have a nice dinner together. Now— what are we in the mood for?"

 _Slightly Later, Still in The Pit_

Boisterous bodies clashed as though they were in battle. They _were_ , in a sense, because if there was anything a Shimizu kid knew, it was that Granny's pork buns were best when they were piping hot, and no one in the family respected the noble concept of 'dibs'. There was enough, though. There was always enough, despite the rowdy gaggle of children scrapping with each other, despite the adults who would stop in from time to time to grab some take out or join their kids.

Nameko's uncanny ability to maintain a steady supply of food at family dinner was astounding— and something the two transport drivers for Corvid Couriers had not experienced in many, many years. It wasn't just that there was food, it was the undeniable warmth that emanated from the Shimizu clan dinners. It was the shining, glazed meats that mirrored the pointy-toothed grins of Wakame and his older brother. The way that Nameko seemed to have conversations with them all, overlapping one another in a perfect cacaphony of familial bonding.

For the sharkish delivery man, it rung of something deep in his chest. He was a part of this in a way, just like his teammate was. He doubted that he could find a way to have extricated himself from Namakeo's motherly and hospital grasp even if he had tried, though. He fit into this, these family dinners they got to have when they were scheduled to deliver here. The part that recognized this also knew that it was distanced. By the brevity of the visits, the nature if his professional relationship with the Shimizu clan, by even his own identity. The tall, blue skinned trucker smiled absentmindedly at the toddler who was "helping" earlier and was now staring wide-eyed at him as though he held the secrets to being able to form full sentences. Really, he was just holding a spoon.

He shoved the aching part down into his stomach. It could drown in his soup, because that feeling was a part of a different compartment of himself that had no place at this dinner table.

"Nezumi-san?" A young Shimizu girl seated next to his colleague tugged on the younger delivery man's sleeve, "Nezumi-san, why are your glasses so big?"

Same snorted. His colleague's magnified eyes, lined with premature age, crinkled, and he placed a gentle hand on the child's head, "It is because I am blind, little friend."

The girl's round eyes grew impossibly large as she comprehended the weight of those words, " _Oh_ …"

Wakame leaned in towards his cousin from across the table, "He isn't really blind, Nezumi-sama is just joking."

Same chucked, nudging the excitable youth to his right, "I'm not so sure. He may drive the truck but I can confirm that his vision is just awful."

"I can see fine, thank you," Nezumi replied, peering at his friend.

"Maybe you can see, but with those glasses you still just kind of look like a fish." Same pointed his spoon at his partner, chiding.

Nezumi chuckled heartily— something rare for the man, "You're one to talk, _Same-sama_."

This easy conversation was another feature of Shimizu clan dinners that struck him. It wasn't that he and Nezumi did not enjoy each other's company. They surely did, and had been working with one another since well before the Fourth War, and in some ways he saw the small, bespectacled truck driver as a brother. But work was more difficult when they were on the road. They had a route to follow, but there was still a threat from bandits and con-men along the road, and the tension rarely dissipated when they were amongst their business contacts. Conversation between the men and their customers was rarely more than general pleasantries when dropping off a shipment, but his and Nezumi's experience with the Shimizu clan had been different. There was an odd sense of belonging felt amongst the brood of chattering youngsters. They offered their food and home to the delivery men, and asked nothing but that the two do the job they'd be completing anyways.

At the same time, there was a nagging in his mind that told him not to be naive. These people were just nice, and they'd do this for anyone. He and Nezumi just happened to be on the delivery route of some really nice folks, but he shouldn't think of their kindness as a sign of anything more than a professional courtesy. Wariness was pertinent in all cases, and he would make no exceptions for the Shimizus.

Then again, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Wakame's spiky hair as the kid tore into a fresh pork bun, burning his tongue, and making every variety of absurd facial expression to dull the pain. Half the bite of bun fell out of his mouth and onto his plate. He blew on it for a moment, then scarfed it back down. Same forced his eyes away, pretending he hadn't seen _that_ particular display.

The kid had very obviously started spiking his hair up in a very familiar fashion a few months after he'd started to deliver to the restaurant. Same, for the life of him, didn't know what kind of gel the kid was using to pull it off. His own hair just kind of… did that, and Wakame's had taken on a stiff, almost plastic rigidity ever since he started mimicking the hairstyle. It might be simple flattery from a child, but he found something endearing in the occurrence.

Staring at the bottom of his soup bowl, he pursed his lips over serrated teeth. Maybe he'd make an exception for the kid.

 _Not in a Literal Pit, Just Metaphorically_

Nezumi took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. From this distance, and without the aid of visual correction, his reflection in the bathroom mirror looked almost like how he remembered. He could see little more than a fuzzy blur, but the shapes were there. Fair skin and dark, wide set eyes. He could see a ghost of himself as a young man there— but just a ghost. Though he couldn't see it unaided, he knew he did not look the same. His face had creased from stress and eye strain before he had found someone who could match his prescription. His hair had grayed at the temples was was not the silken black sheet of his youth, but had grown coarser.

Aging was something Nezumi had rarely considered in his childhood, and when the Fourth War began—much before then, something reminded him— the concept of getting old became what felt like wishful thinking. Now that he had the ability and time to consider the possibility of life continuing onwards, he spent too many moments dissociating into the mirror. Nezumi wasn't old, by any means, and the fact that he started going gray in his early thirties didn't have anything to do with it. As he saw it, he really just wasn't supposed to make it this far. There was no explanation for the dumb luck that had graced him, and he wasn't about to look too deeply into it. His eyes might be shot, but he had a friend and a small income, and that was more than could be said for most of the people he grew up with.

Nezumi sighed, tearing his eyes from his own reflection, dragged a brush through his hair to get it out of his way, and began scrubbing his face. He had a ritual: Hair back, face scrubbed and moisturized, medicated eye drops in, hair back down and braided, teeth brushed, and then to bed. Structure helped Nezumi, and the worst times during work were when he didn't have the opportunity to complete his routine. To be honest, that happened more often that he'd like, what with how desolate some stretches of highway were.

But nights like this were superb. He made a mental note to to thank the Shimizu matriarch again before they left. After dinner, Same and he had been offered a room in the compound's guest houses. The pair usually did not stay for longer than a few hours since the scheduled routes had to be followed, but tonight was open since they didn't have another pick up due at Courier headquarters for another day and a half. This fortunately meant that not only did Nezumi get to fulfill his calming and sacred evening routine, but he also would allow himself to sleep in the next morning— an absolute luxury if he'd ever known one. There were so few things he cherished more than the chance to sleep for longer than his job usually allowed.

All things considered, his life was infinitely easier than it had been for the first two decades or so, and as long as he committed to this life, to his comfortable identity, there wasn't a need for undue complications—

"Mmhey Itachi? You done in there? I gotta use the can." The door to the bathroom cracked open as one small, sharkish eye peeked through, squinting as it adjusted to the light.

Upon hearing the name, his own given name, his head snapped up to look in the mirror again. Not Nezumi's face. Not the half-baked cover story for the impossible nature of his current life, but _Itachi Uchiha_. Cursed tenfold and over again by his own actions and the decisions of his ancestors. Sometimes the name reminded him of home— what used to be home. Used to be family. Other times, like now, the name triggered a disconnected response, as though he'd be called something unsavory.

It felt so painfully familiar and yet foreign at the same time. Itachi was dead, _twice_. Was supposed to be dead, at least. And Nezumi picked up where that death left off. He was a different man now, with different thoughts and goals, and he didn't spend long moments agonizing over his own existential identity when his friend was waiting to pee.

"Hey um, if this is a bad time, I can wait for a few minutes." Came the voice on the other side of the door.

"No please, you're fine, I'm finished." The dark haired man secured his braid at one end and shuffled out the door past his friend, mentally shaking himself from the funk. He privately smiled to see the shark tooth print pajamas which he found to be both on-the-nose and ironic, considering the man's age and size. Just imagine if the Great Nations knew that the most infamous son of Kirigakure was not only at large, but wore shark p.j.'s.

"Goodnight, Kisame." Itachi said over his shoulder as he flopped onto one of the two beds in the small bedroom. That extra sleep was going to be absolutely divine.


	2. Chapter 2: Eggs In Pan, Foolproof Plan!

**Bracing Oneself For Greatness**

It was barely dawn when Wakame startled awake from a particularly stressful dream in which he'd missed the train into the Academy, and was left running behind, toting his nin-gator, Geta, in his backpack who for some reason weighed a ton and slowed him down even more. The bulky and epic Kisame Hoshigaki had been there too, looming at the back of the train, glaring at him disappointedly. He awoke feeling a sense of urgency and and covered in a gross sheen of sweat. Horrible.

It was silly to be having nervous dreams at his age, he thought. He didn't even start the Academy for another month and a half, and besides adding Geta into the mix, nothing was really different except that he was going to be training for the chunin exams with his genin team, and he wasn't nervous for that, he was excited! Wakame was determined to pass the Chunin exams with flying colors and rocket to the top of the ranks. He wanted to be the best gator-nin the Great Nations had ever known, and his name would be as loud in the books as that big guy in the dream— Kisame Hoshigaki!

He paused, mentally. Except not a criminal. Wakame always made sure to add that part. The name of the shark nin had taken on less of a monstrous villain tone among the young people of Kiri since the war, and more that of a monsterous legend. Wakame himself had discovered the man's grim-looking Bingo Book image in his Recent History textbook in school when they had discussed the rebel group Akatsuki… and the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist… and the Fourth Great Ninja War. Actually, the Third War too. Historically, the guy got around. He looked tough, though. Unafraid. Some of the more foolish kids made a show of whispering, "Sharkman! Sharkman!" Under their breath in some private joke whenever his image popped up in school textbooks.

But Wakame was _enthralled_. This man was so highly respected in his lifetime, and even though he was on the losing side, he read as much about the Akatsuki as any other kid in his class. The group had been at fault for a lot of things, but so were the forces they fought against. It was complex, as his last sensei had tried to explain. War was something he only kind of got, but he knew it wasn't always a battle of good and evil like old stories tried to say. But despite the shadiness and illegality of his life, Kisame Hoshigaki was committed to the causes he believed in, and he died for those causes.

Wakame was young and had a troublemaking streak half a mile wide, but he knew admirability when he saw it, and that's why he kept a traced drawing of that Bingo Book photograph shoved in the edge of his mirror. He still got weird looks when he named the Hoshigaki as his hero, but when he'd first met Same-sama, his embarrassment was put to some rest. Same-sama was sharky too, which meant he might even come from the same clan. He wasn't as young or as tough as Kisame Hoshigaki, for sure, and he wasn't a trained swordsman, but Same-sama was nice and liked Granny's cooking. He taught him how to lift heavy boxes with his knees and how to unload a forklift. He also hadn't made fun of Wakame when he started styling his hair like his hero's.

It's not like Same-sama could complain, his hair was kinda spiky like that too. Seeing that had actually been what gave Wakame the final push to branch out. Hijiki had made a point of poking the well-gelled end of his hair whenever the younger boy walked by, but Same-sama and Nezumi-sama never made fun. They hardly seemed to notice, actually, which Wakame took to mean that the look was natural and suited him. The inexperienced boy did not realize, of course, that his heavily shellacked hairdo did not seem natural in the least, but that is exactly what youth is good for.

Wakame examined himself, combing a bit more product into his hair to make sure the sides were stiff. He flashed a toothy, jagged grin in the mirror, trying to make himself look as cool and sinister as possible.

A glance at the clock on his bedside table told him what he already knew. 6:00 a.m. it was almost time to get moving. To leave. The jittery feeling he'd been repressing for a few weeks rose up into his chest, and the boy began to hop around in some style of jumping jacks to suppress the urge to violently expel last night's dinner from his face. Oh GatorGod, this was real. He was doing this. He was so gonna be in trouble, but he needed to do this before starting his secondary Academy training. He knew his dream, but he needed to demonstrate his own independence to himself. He had to get rid of any doubt within his heart.

Wakame Shimizu was all of eleven and a half, and he was going to travel the Great Nations.

Why not, he thought in reassurance to himself. There were plenty of great shinobi who were already jonin by eleven. The image of some fluffy-haired Konoha ANBU who was like, six, or something, came to him. Six-year-olds were babies, and Wakame was not a baby. He could do this, and he had a plan.

The truckers of Corvid Couriers were going to be key. He hadn't been sure how they would factor in— or even aware that they would factor in— but when Granny had told Nezumi-sama and Same-sama that they should sleep in the guest house on their night off instead of finding a hotel or sleeping, "in that clunky truck of yours! You're people, not produce, fellas!" It had become clear to Wakame in an instant.

The truck.

The Corvid Couriers truck, which would be sitting unattended within the compound walls all night. The truck, which would be traveling to everywhere and anywhere beyond the boundaries of Kirigakure. The truckers would never even know, and he'd slip away at their first stop and travel on foot. If he could be well outside the city before anyone even knew he had left, then Wakame would have a free pass to travel the Great Nations. He'd stop in all the Hidden Villages before coming home triumphant. Just in time to start the second phase of his Academy training as a genin.

This was his time to strike out on his own, and with his hair styled up in honor of the most powerful ninja he'd ever heard of, Wakame was ready. He could do this. The young boy— no, young _man_ — stuffed the rest of what he knew to be essential products and supplies into his bag. He sloppily threw a comforter over the bed, and turned to leave the room. This time, he didn't face himself in the mirror.

There was no need. He was already gone.

 **The Champions' Repast**

Okay, so he was gone, right after breakfast. He already stashed his bag in the pile of feed sacks near the truck, so he was ready to leave at any moment. He'd also realized in the process of getting ready that he was pretty hungry, and Granny would have a conniption if she found out he'd left town and hadn't had anything to eat. So maybe it was a way of softening any unavoidable blows to his family's trust? Also it was mostly that all things considered, this would be his last home-cooked meal for quite a while.

Wakame sat at one of the worn, picnic-style long tables at Granny's restaurant, before it opened for the day. Granny Shimizu swept around the kitchen, hastily whipping eggs with milk and throwing together various sauce mixtures. The scent of rice frying in chicken fat and soy sauce wafted heavily in the air, and despite his nerves Wakame felt himself relax slightly in the scent of home. He would miss things like this the most.

"What's got you up so early, anyways, puddin'?" Granny called over the kitchen counter, "It's hardly seven on a Saturday!"

"No real reason, just woke up and couldn't fall back asleep, so I just got up for the day." He paused briefly, "I might go into town after breakfast to look for a birthday gift for Chozame." A lie. Although he did need to find her something, since she was turning eleven soon, and he'd beat himself up more than she would if he forgot... again.

Granny smiled to herself, "Oh that's sweet, do you know what you're looking for?"

"Yeah, I think so." Wakame picked at the waxy varnish on the table, willing his granny to buy his story.

The older woman paused, casting an appraising eye over the steaming pan of rice towards her grandson, "Do you have money?"

"Yep! I have some, no worries!" Also a lie. Well, not entirely. He had about enough ryo to last him a few meals, but he was not going to entertain the idea of asking for or stealing cash from his family. He was self sufficient and would simply live off the land.

Granny nodded, "Hm, okay, well make sure you eat first, I don't want you running out the door before you've started the day."

No problem there, Wakame thought. The restaurant was smelling better by the minute, and he could feel his stomach rumble impatiently. Omurice was something filling and simple, but Granny turned the dish into an art form. In some small, sad way, he was glad this was how he would see his family off. No fuss, no big to-do, just him, Granny, and some breakfast—

"Hey, son!" A meaty hand from seemingly nowhere clapped him on the back, "What's got you up so early?"

"That's what I asked." Granny called from the kitchen.

"Hi, Dad." Wakame jumped in suprise and felt tension build slightly in his back before forcing himself to relax. Youta Shimizu was a shinobi, a skilled jounin, and ambush specialist. If he sensed his son was hiding something, he would call him out on it. Sometimes having ninja parents was difficult as hell. He'd learned from Hijiki when he was growing up, and had seen the older boy get busted more times than he could count by either their mother of father for trying to be sneaky. Their youth had often felt like a constant battle to see who could escape their parents' well-meaning but dangerously observant eyes. Then again if the boys hadn't given the adults more than enough reason to expect shenanigans every day of their lives, they wouldn't have had to be so careful.

"You in line for breakfast?" Wakame slid a kettle of tea across the table towards his father.

Youta shook his head,"Nah, just thought I'd stop in to say Hi to my saint of a mother before the mission squad gets called today."

"You're eating, Youta, you don't have a choice." Granny replied sharply in her well-mastered brand of aggressive caring.

"I second that motion babe, breakfast first." Wakame's head snapped up as he heard his mother speak, realizing that she'd come in with his father. The woman stole a forkful of sauteed mushrooms off the bowl on the counter, much to the irritation of Granny, who swatted her with a dish towel.

"Wait till it's ready or I'll burn yours on purpose!"

Wakame kicked himself for not even hearing her come in— or his father, for that matter. It wasn't really his fault though, his mom was an eerily silent presence when she moved about, which lent itself well to her stealth specialty. Sungai and Youta made an excellent team in that regards: reconnaissance and ambush, a force to be feared on the backs of their massive nin-gators.

Seeing them act so jovial with one another made his heart ache slightly again. They were gonna be so disappointed in him for not telling them he was leaving. But he wanted to prove that he could be on his own, and if he couldn't even hone into his senses enough to hear them come into a room, then he needed this trip. It might be a trial by fire, but it would shape his instincts and skills, and with Geta along with him, he could form a deeper bond with his most important teammate. His parents may be about to leave on a mission, but Wakame had his own mission to attend to.

His mother had come over to take a seat next to her son. She wiggled a finger at his cheek, "What's up 'lil man? You look kinda constipated."

Wakame stretched in his seat. "Just tired," he lied, "Do you know how long your mission's for?"

Youta poured his wife a cup of tea, "About two weeks or so. Maybe less if it goes well. It's just a routine thing though, so we'll definitely be back for your first day of Secondary."

"Oooh!" Sungai cut it, plopping her chin in one hand and gazing at her youngest, "How did our tiny baby boy child already get old enough to start chunin training? Could've sworn it was just yesterday that I popped you out."

"Oh my God, _Mom_."

 **A Swordsman's Tennets**

Kisame Hoshigaki knew five things.Granted, if he examined himself, he would probably discover that he knew several more things than that, but there were five pieces of infinite knowledge that he lived by. Those snippets of know-how— those irrefutable rules— had gotten him much further than, technically speaking, he deserved credit for.

The first rule was self explanatory: _Never pass up a restroom._

When he had spent years at war and on the run, and then more years working a long-haul transport gig, he'd learned that there were too few usable toilets in this world, and even fewer were what the man would consider "decent". You see a restroom? You use it.

Number two: _Never neglect a weapon_.

This was something he had learned well and often throughout his life. A weapon that was not at peak performance was a weapon that was open to failure, and caring for his blades properly had been one of his greatest joys. Even now he grew nostalgic for the smell of the special salve he treated Samehada with every night. That sword had been so much more than a simple weapon, and he often lamented its absence.

A large part of the sword's tolerance for him had come from his meticulous care and maintenance. It was unique among the blades of the Seven Swordsmen, and Kisame had mastered it. Weapons were like loved ones, and if neglected they would fail you. Neglect was not an option for Kisame, not when he found his many callings in life, nor when he plunged into the elaborate scheme of false fronts that had shrouded him for the last decade. Some may say that neglect and loyalty are two sides of different coins, but they were the bi-colored thread which wove his very core, and when your life had been saved by well kept weaponry as many times as his had, you did not neglect it. It lived in your heart, like family.

Third rule: _Never trust completely._

Kisame had understood the idea of family, once. He had experienced friendships, the bonds of fellow soldiers and allies. He had seen bitter betrayals coated in both fiery hatred and saccharine kindness, and from this, knew that one could never put absolute trust in anything. It was less a view of pessimism than it was practicality. Treachery aside, allies changed. Motives shifted. People died. Life was not absolute, and the lives that mattered so dearly were not guaranteed to anything but to end eventually. Well, except for Orochimaru, he didn't know what the deal with that guy was and he didn't want to know.

There were very few exceptions, otherwise, and Kisame had learned to prepare for the hardest blows. In politics, relationships, and battles this philosophy allowed him to function effectively while receiving very few surprises. The biggest shock of his life had been, funnily enough, when it failed to end. By all logical accounts, his summons should have torn him to pieces, just like he'd commanded them to in that last desperate attempt to break free in the only way that felt possible in that moment. And yet here he was, years later, very much intact and alive. Apparently he couldn't even trust himself fully. Not to die when appropriate, at least.

But still the rule stood: trust could be had— but not completely. You always had to to consider the consequences if you found yourself alone.

That brought him directly to rule four: _If you're going to die for something, you had better believe in it._

Along with the trust rule, Kisame had shaped his life around this one. His loyalty did not come cheaply, or easily, but it came with the guarantee that if Kisame Hoshigaki found himself in a position of loyalty strong enough to believe— truly believe— in a cause, he would put his own life on the line.

This held true when training for inheritance of Samehada, and it came forth in his decision to slaughter his master to win the weapon. He believed in his ability to obtain the blade just as strongly as he believed in his right to wield it.

It held true in his commitment to the brutality of the Bloody Mist. There was something horrible and chaotic in the system which raised him, and despite its terror, it was a world he'd thrived in. For a time. And when that system failed, he'd revoked his loyalty.

The Akatsuki were the last cause for which Kisame would have died. In hindsight, there were few points at which the organization was not following a bee-line to destroying themselves, but the group had provided a driving force, a rhetoric that he desperately needed after forsaking the life he'd known. He wasn't afraid to admit this many years later that he had needed support. He had, and had given his life in return, in rebellion against the organized systems for the Great Nations. He was younger then.

Now he did not devote his life to causes, but to people. It sometimes conflicted with his principle of no complete trust, but he learned that those who were worth his loyalty gave him few reasons to distrust them. He still braced for disaster at any turn, and he was ultimately prepared for imminent betrayal or abandonment should it arise. Even now, the shortlist of those he actually believed in was, well, short. A few civilian co-truckers, Nameko Shimizu, and his companion—his friend— Itachi Uchiha.

He had meant the last words he ever intended to speak to the man when he was barely out of childhood and carried the weight of a dead clan on his shoulders. Itachi, despite his difficulties, immense sorrow, and to be honest, multitude of war crimes, was a good man. Kisame held him in the highest respect, and when he'd discovered that the young Uchiha had somehow miraculously stayed alive in the wake of the Fourth War, after literally dying and being resurrected, the two had rejoined.

There was no accounting for their deaths. Even less accounting for their lives, and Kisame believed, more than any cause he had joined with, more than Itachi, more than himself, that he should not question the nature of his survival. In fact, he's bank his life on his assuredness that he didn't want to know too much about it.

There was one bit of knowledge, though, that Kisame had never in his life wavered upon. It was fueled by every fiber of his being, and this knowledge alone had prevented the demise of not just himself, but the deaths of hundreds. On this rule, he was uncompromising, and it his mission to see it through, he was steadfast. It was not an option for him to fail in this, and it never would be.

"Rule five: _Never skip breakfast_." Kisame tugged on the left foot of a still-groggy Uchiha, who grumbled and buried his face in a pillow. He swatted on hand lazily.

"Unghhhhh not hungry." Came Itachi's voice, muffled by bed covers. Honesty the guy slept like he was trying to fight a wild boar. The beds had been made with military precision when they'd gotten into the room last night, and Itachi's was now tossed asunder, comforter twisted and sideways, exposing one foot and trapping the other in what Kisame could only assume was a vice like grip. The man's dark hair was half out if its braid and flopped across the pillow.

Kisame rolled his eyes, "You will be, dingus, and we're not stopping until the rest stop at the edge of wave country. Plus Nameko-san invited us and we're not going to be rude."

Another groan sounded from the general direction of Itachi's face, "Ugh. What time is it?"

"Almost seven, we're late." He tugged at the exposed foot again, and the sack-o-bones on the bed slid about three feet off the end of the mattress, "Get ready, please."

He was answered with a last sigh heaved into the pillow, and the form of the younger man rose from beneath the comforter like he'd been struck in battle. You'd think a hardened career criminal who'd technically died once wouldn't have had so much difficulty being woken up, yet here they were.

Itachi shuffled miserably towards the bathroom, and Kisame chuckled, "You've got this, you'll pull through."

His friend flashed a tired salute at him in the mirror before closing the door.


	3. Tea Cozy, Time to Mozy!

To his credit, once Itachi got moving in the morning he got ready relatively quickly. He was out, packed, and ready to load into the truck within fifteen minutes of Kisame's waking him. The Hoshigaki himself had spent those minutes attempting to straighten the room. It was a calming exercise, to make a space look neat. The room looked like any number of inns or decent hostels scattered through this part of the country these days. Quaint and rustic, the light green painted wood panelling and pale yellow sheets made the space feel warm despite the chill of an early Kirigakure morning misting outside the window. It was almost as if the space was perfectly intended to make guests feel at ease.

That's stupid, he thought, of course it is, this is the guest house.

The rooms were most likely maintained for family visitors. Kisame was trusting of the Shimizu clan but that trust had been carefully and unwillingly built over several years of having to realize that they truly did not suspect him or Itachi of being anything other than what they claimed. Before that trust came, he'd done what research he could, given that he had no access to quality databases of clan information. The Shimizu clan was different than many others he'd encountered, either in his own home village or abroad. Several branch clan colonies had stemmed from a larger, original settlement somewhere in the far south of River country, and the clan establishments had made permanent homes near a few hidden villages. He figured it must have had something to do with the general chaos that ensued during the Third War. Land of Rivers had become crucial to transport able bodies and weapons into the center of the continent, and so River country became a tumultuous game board upon which multiple players fought for the best path. He guessed the clan had relocated with their prized animals to safer areas in the conflict's wake.

Still, the concept that a clan could split and relocate without massive upheaval was jarring to Kisame. He so clearly remembered the difficult, treacherous, and often pedantic clan politics of his youth, with branch clans arguing for power and allegiance, struggling and scrapping for every inch they gained. The Shimizu clan was, in this sense, an outlier. However foreign it was to see a family getting along, Kisame was at least grateful that the matriarch, Nameko, was fond of him and Itachi. They would most likely have someone to vouch for them if they ever got into trouble with folks in Kiri. Not that he foresaw them ever sticking around in town long enough the have trouble, but it never hurt to plan for a bad scenario.

From what Kisame had observed, the Shimizus were the sort of family that children without the luxury of kin would have dreamt about. The people here lived together-- really lived together. Communally and with what seemed to be at least marginal respect for one another. That may have been a low bar to meet, but this was a country in which cousins and siblings would run one another through to eliminate a threat. The Shimizu actually seemed to get along reasonably well, at least briefly during the mealtimes in which he'd seen them interact. He did understand the temporary improved mood that could come to a family with the addition of a good meal. If that was the case, then Nameko was bent on ensuring her family was blissfully joyful.

"You ready to eat?" Itachi took his bag from the floor by the bathroom and slung it over one shoulder. Kisame stood as well, just a bit too quickly in his eagerness, and sent the chair he sat in toppling over.

"Um." Itachi raised one eyebrow from behind his thick glasses, which made his dark eyes appear roughly three times their natural size.

Kisame huffed out a laugh, "I'm hungry, so stab me."

The two made their way from the guest houses near the private homes of the Shimizu compound, to where their truck was parked near the massive greenhouse enclosure in which the clan kept the behemoth lizards. Monstrous creatures, which had become the Shimizu symbol of prowess and power, were similar to the small crocodiles in the Land of Grass, but bigger and far more unsettling. Kisame had once seen one as large as himself look him in the eye with all the understanding and awareness of a sentient summons animal. Since then he had tried to keep out their direct line of sight. 

The truck was old, but since motor vehicles were still a rarity in much of the the continent, it classified as somewhat cutting edge. The cab was white, with a stenciled image of a large crow in mid-flight with Corvid Couriers in written chunky lettering underneath on both driver and passenger doors The bench seat that ran across the cab was only just big enough for the both of them to sit comfortably side by side, so they stashed their bags in the cargo trailer welded to the truck bed. Itachi pulled a set of keys from his back pocket, unlocked the trailer's clunky metal door, and slid it upwards with a heave. The the abrasive sound of metal on metal rang out as poorly-oiled wheels slid on tracks, exposing the empty interior.

"Here, hand me your bag, I'll stick 'em in the loose cargo bins."

Kisame tossed the bag up to him and extended a hand when Itachi returned from the depths of the trailer to help him jump down.

When Itachi landed on the ground, he looked up to see that his friend's nostrils had flared.

"You good, pal?"

Kisame nodded and tilted his head, sniffing, "You smell that?"

Itachi inhaled deeply, but got nothing, "Well, I'm kinda clouded by the general dirt-and-lizard smell back here, plus you can smell things like a literal shark, so no. What is it?"

"Shrimp."

Itachi raised an eyebrow and cast a glance in the vague direction of the Gator Pit Restaurant, "Like… shrimp cooking? Or..?"

Kisame was already headed towards the Shimizu eatery. That damn guy and his inability to resist shellfish. Or whatever shrimp were. Shrimp were okay, he guessed, but he had really grown disdainful of most dirt-filled musselly things. Maybe it was because a certain overgrown shark with arms insisted on eating them raw when he caught them himself. Anyways.

Itachi huffed, and fumbled with the keys as he struggled for a moment to pull the door down from high above his head, and hastily twisted the key in the lock. He realized that he had lied this morning. He was hungry.

As they rounded the end of the greenhouse, the Gator Pit came into view. It was a large building for the space it was built on, and it seemed to have crammed itself in between the greenhouse and the Shimizu council house as though in had elbowed its way in and squatted there. Faded wood, greyed by years of Cold Kiri winter, and dark green metal roofing. The porch was lit by several hanging lanterns that hung at unequal heights in a row that stretched towards the large banquet porch on the left side of the building. The interior glowed through wide screen windows, whose shutters were held aloft by ropes and pulleys. The two men climbed the few stairs to the front door and Kisame pushed it open with a creak.

"Oh my god, MOM." Wakame's voice hit Itachi's ears upon entering the room.

The mother in question-- he couldn't remember the name, threw her head back in exuberant laughter, "What? I'm your mother, kiddo, not like you can avoid it!" She was pretty. Sandy brown hair and freckled skin, strong boned and, from what Itachi understood an accomplished stealth specialist. Part of him didn't understand how a woman with a laugh of that volume and a massive reptile that she rode into battle on could possibly manage stealth, but he guessed that the proof was in her jounin rank.

The man seated across from her-- presumably Wakame's father-- looked up to address the newcomers, "Hey strangers!" he called, "I'm guessing Ma didn't let you have a choice in whether you were eating or not either this morning?"

"Never do!" The matriarch-- Nameko was her name-- shouted over her shoulder in the kitchen.

"We wouldn't miss it anyways, " Replied Kisame, "I could be wrong, Nameko-san, but is that some sort of shellfish I smell cooking?"

"You'd be close, we got chicken and shrimp fried rice, eggs, and some greens this mornin'."

Kisame, looking extremely satisfied with himself, made his way to the kitchen counter to hover over the cooking breakfast under the guise of "Helping out". Itachi's eyes slid back to the table where Wakame and his parents sat. The father looked up at him expectantly. Oh right.

"I'm Nezumi," he smiled, "Corvid Couriers Driver. I do not think we've met."

That was what the man had been waiting for. He jumped up with a massive grin and gestured to the open space a the table, "Well it's just great to meet ya! Youta Shimizu," he slapped a hand to his own chest, indicating himself, "Won't you join us?"

Itach smiled thoughtfully, "Sure, thank you." It had been years since anyone had seriously doubted his identity, to his knowledge, but interacting with shinobi old enough to recognize his birth name still made him cautious. True, when you technically died twice, very few people, even shinobi, expected you to still be kicking around, but Itachi wasn't into taking large risks when it came to that. He really didn't want to be roped into a conversation with military agents from one of the Great Nations before breakfast, but then again, Itachi was the one feeling iffy about it. Nezumi, the middle-aged trucker, wouldn't have had a problem.

"So Nezumi, Youta eyed him, leaning forward slightly in his seat, "tell us about yourself."

_________________________________________________________

Youta's tone was not wary, nor that of a shinobi trying the extract information from a suspect. Itachi gazed calmly at the smiling man, who he was finding concerningly energetic for this hour of the morning. Not that it was an early hour, per say, but he'd personally never been a fan of doing anything much before ten o'clock. Itachi wasn't taken aback by his question as he was that manor of both Youta and his wife. He was entirely certain that his own parents would have never been so relaxed-- so informal-- with an unknown guest. They'd had different stresses, though. Different concerns and-- The moon. A solitary witness to slaughter, numbed and angry, not him-- obligations.

Itachi wrenched himself from a train of thought which held no kindness for him. It was well-traveled, but he had no business being there now. He planted his mind firmly within Nezumi, and smiled, "Well, I've been with the Couriers for the past long while, most of my adult years. I'm from Waterfall Country originally, though, near the Earth border. Really little village called Reisui, if you know it?"

Youta seemed to consider it for a moment, "I'm less familiar with that part of the continent, but Sungai, don't you have some cousins in in Earth?"

"In Iwa, yeah." Wakame's mother replied, "You ever make it up to that area, Nezumi-san? It's stunning with all those mountains." 

Itachi nodded. There was no doubt that he should have at least been there before to back his claims, but truth told he had never been west of Waterfall. "Sometimes, yes. Work keeps me away from home a lot, though, but my family writes." 

Sungai grinned in response, "That's so nice! Youta and I try to keep the boys updated when we're away too, but it can be hard sometimes! Goodness knows how slow the Water Country post is, and once you get across international borders? Forget it." She waved her hand dismissively, as though the Hidden Mist Postal Distributary Service were the primary cause of her day-to-day strife.

Itachi chuckled shallowly, rolling his eyes, "Don't I know it? My girls try to write when they can if I get them a usable address from where I am, but it takes forever for letters to get back home to them."

Wakame's eyes snapped up to look at him, "You have kids? But Nezumi-sama you're so old." The boy's mother deposited a light smack on the back of his head.

Itachi laughed, "I'm not that old, and I was younger when I had them, they're older than your brother by now."

"Kids grow up son," Youta cast a doubtful look at the boy.

"They sure do!" Itachi helped himself the pot of tea sitting in the middle of the table, "You enjoy your parents taking care of you, Wakame, you'll be grown up before you know it."

The genin puffed out his chest a bit, "I am grown up, Nezumi-sama, and I'm going to be the world's best gator-nin, and be more famous than any other, and Geta's going to grown and grow to be twenty feet long--" the boy seemed to be almost levitating off his seat, half standing over the cup of tea he'd been drinking, "--and I'm gonna see all the hidden villages and see a big shark in real life--"

"Son, I need you to get off the table." Youta tugged gently at Wakame's t-shirt, and the kid looked down as though he was surprised to find himself, fists clenched at his sides, ready to fight, presumably his own destiny, and with one foot planted upon the tabletop. His face shone with the dangerous light of a young shinobi ready to prove themself. It reminded Itachi of too many children he'd known. He raised his palms in defeat.

"You are absolutely right, my many apologies. You are an official shinobi now, yes?" Wakame nodded vigorously in response as he launched himself from the top of the table and made a show of landing only somewhat silently on the creaking floor.

Nameko shouted, "It's a restaurant, not the training grounds!" around Kisame, who had been handed a massive bowl of rice to stir to cool down.

The boy offered a hasty apology, but immediately launched into a simple training kata, dodging the tables like the were adversaries on the offensive. His form was not bad, but tense, as if he were wound too tightly. Itachi knew how dangerous that tension could be in battle, but he also knew the boy was barely a genin, and had time to train a grow as a fighter. It must be incredible to come of age, he thought, without the threat of death weighing on your small shoulders. Without the entrenched hatred and bitterness of your family spurring your potential. Of course he did not know the Shimizu clan above a cursory level, but there was so much gentleness-- familiarity-- in the way they interacted. Wakame was naive in all the ways of a child who was burdened by only his own aspirations. It made Itachi feel grateful that some good was present in the world, after everything, and at the same time sad in a part of himself that was difficult to place.

Youta looked at his son bounce from table to table, thwarting invisible jutsu and commanding a nin-gator that was not actually present. His eyes brimmed with loving exasperation. "So Nezumi-san, you have daughters?"

Itachi nodded and blew on his tea, "Four, actually."

Sungai whistled low, "That's a lotta kids. Your wife is a brave lady."

"Well she'd fight me for saying this, but I'll tell you, the woman is a force of nature. I still don't know how she did it when the kids were little. They're old enough to help with the farm now of course, but when I had gigs that took me away in the early years-- I know I wouldn't have managed."

Youta nodded understandingly, "Oh yeah, working and raising the boys was a feat, and well," he glanced to his youngest, squatting and lunging rapidly in place, "we're still trying."

"Your mom's incredible with the kids though," Sungai interjected, "I swear only reason the whole clan hasn't gone up in flames is cause of her."

Youta clinked his cup gently against his wife, "Yeah I'd place money on that one."

The screen door of the restaurant clashed open and Wakame's older brother, Hijiki, shuffled in, hands in his pockets. Had he just… smashed the door open with the front of his body? Sungai had hardly let the teenager register that his entire immediate family was in the room before she threw her hands up and exclaimed, "Ah, the original fruit of the womb!"

"Mom." Hijiki groaned, "Stop." Sungai, to her credit, laughed as though she had absolutely no intention to stop embarrassing her sons anytime soon.


	4. Face Your Dreams and Battle Screams

Wakame had inhaled his breakfast like it was the only food offered to him in months. That might have been a mistake, since now his stomach was full, and gurgling in protest of his hunched position as he crouched in the scrubby bushes just to the left of the Corvid Couriers truck. He'd announced just after breakfast that he was headed into the city. Well, shortly after his breakfast. He admitted that he scarfed down the meal in record time. The others were still probably finishing up.

That meant it was time to make his move. The weight of his backpack balanced well with the weight of Geta in his arms. The cool, leather like skin moved with the creature as she shifted impatiently. She was otherwise calm, though, which made him feel better. They were in this together, he and his gator. And he was ready. The coast was clear. Wakame popped up from the bushes and moved-- very sneakily-- over to the back of the truck. He promptly realized the hitch in his plan.

The truck's large sliding door had a keyhole next to the handle. If the door was locked, then things got way more complicated. He'd have to restructure the entire travel situation, possibly postpone the adventure entirely. That was something he really didn't want to have to do. He steeled himself, saying a silent prayer to all the biggest alligators that had come before him, his ancestors, and the ghost of Kisame Hoshigaki, for good measure. He lifted up on the handle. It was a heavy door, but no lock caught its weight as it shifted upward a few inches.

"Yes!" Wakame hissed and patted Geta excitedly with his free hand. She swept her thick tail past his legs and made a very low sound in contentment. He set her at his feet to get better purchase on the door with both hands, and with a slightly embarrassing amount of effort, he got the door to scoot up just far enough to slide under. He shoved his backpack through the gap first, then Geta, who had already begun clawing her way up his pant leg to get into the truck. He took one last look at the shady corner of the family compound. When he returned, he'd be a changed man, that was certain. He hitched one leg up on the edge of the truck bed, and half crawled, half shimmied his way into the the vehicle on his stomach. Once inside, he blinked to gauge his surroundings.

In addition to their pointed teeth, the Shimizu clan held other shared physical traits with their reptilian counterparts. These characteristics usually manifested differently from person to person, but in general the cross-generational ties that the clan held to the animals allowed them to see extremely well in the dark. Wakame blinked again, allowing his vision to adjust, and ascertained that he and Geta were indeed alone for this ride. All looked clear; the truck had several rows of metal shelving bolted to the ceiling and floor, all empty. There were some large canvas bins towards the front of the cargo hold as well. Perfect hiding place. He turned towards the still-ajar door, and pushed his foot down on an interior lip, forcing it down to meet the floor. When it did, Wakame heard the sharp metallic click of a latch sliding into place. He paused for a moment, and tried to gain some purchase on the door with the tips of his fingers, but it was flush with the floor. Okay, so he was locked in now. And that was okay, because he wanted to do this in the first place and he wasn't going to back out! Not that he could now anyways, something nagged at him.

Wakame was locked in the back of a cargo truck going to who-knows-where, with almost no money, and no one expecting him home until later that evening. He may not have planned this out quite as perfectly as he'd thought, and the urge to nervously jump around and pound at the walls of the truck until someone heard him rattled in his chest with every heartbeat.

Too late now, too late now.

He wanted to prove himself. He'd gotten this far, and the fact that he was trapped in the truck should only encourage him! He looked down at Geta, who was sniffing at the dried meat pocket of Wakame's bag, and felt himself grow calmer. He wasn't alone in this, he reminded himself. Geta would be there through all of this, his best friend! Squaring his jaw and shoulders, he faced the inside of the cargo hold with renewed energy and determination.

It was unfortunate, for the boy's nerves, to be locked within a truck in the middle of his own clan's walls as he tried to make a great escape to adventures unknown. However it was fortunate, for his plan, that the truck itself was located in a less-frequented section of the compound, sheltered by the greenhouse, where empty feed sacks were kept to be reused or composted. Fortunate, because Wakame, in his excitement, could not hardly contain himself. And if a Shimizu clan member-- or an unassuming pair of truckers, for that matter-- had been walking past at that particular moment, they would have sensed an unmistakable, if muffled, flare of chakra, accompanied by a resounding, "Bring it!"

Nameko scrubbed the plate in her hands, banishing the residual chill from her joints with hot water. When she'd married into the clan, she was a young woman on the coast of the Land of Rivers, and never fully grasped the intricacies of international clan politics. Coming of age as a civilian in a village with only one or two clan families had simply not necessitated it. But how things had changed since then. Sometimes the ebb and flow of her life's pattern gave her pause, but she was not one for overly reminiscing in bygone years. All told, she'd rushed into clan life and had received a crash course, including the many political quirks and familial traits of the large clans, whether for her late husband's purposes or for her own ability to remember faces, she never could determine.

Though she firmly embraced the idea of an open mind, certain families came with certain reputations. For instance, the Shimizu of River Country had long been seen as a feral and unpredictable group, toting or riding around on alligators through the rivers, as silent as death and twice as deadly. They inspired fear and mystery in her younger years, but once she had gotten to know the Shimizu family growing up she'd realized that the rumors left out the fact that the clan was dedicated to familial respect, conservation of an ancient species, and bred its children with a hearty goofiness that warmed her heart to this day. Needless to say, appearances were often deceiving. While nearly all reputations came with only the smallest grains of truth, rumors surrounding physical traits especially held on. Clans who took on more unconventional traits were often feared on that basis. Looking like a slightly more like an alligator, or shark, or even dog left certain impressions upon the public.

It was partly for that reason that Nameko was so tickled to be washing dishes alongside what she assumed to be two individuals on the run from their respective clans. Same-san and Nezumi-san stood to either side of her at the sink, the latter handing her plates and silverware to wash from breakfast's aftermath, the former taking each piece from her to dry and place in neat stacks.

The first thing that alerted her to suspicion were the names Same and Nezumi, with no surnames ever offered. It seemed odd to her that that family names had never come up in the several years she'd known them. Secondly, the big one was quite obviously of some relation to the Hoshigaki. Nameko was not as up to date on clan practices as she once had been, but she knew that the Hoshigaki were not ones to frivolously have bastard sons-- or at the very least, allow them to roam around doing civilian work. Personally, she regarded merchant and transportation workers to be braver and serve a nobler purpose than many ninja she knew, and regarded the profession as vital to both her own and every city's livelihood. But she knew the Hoshigaki, and civilian labor just didn't seem to be something that they'd be thrilled about. So that probably meant that he was either a rare case that, for some reason, had not become a source of gossip-- unlikely, given the Kiri clan circles she was familiar with-- or he was experienced in much more than he let on. He was younger than her, but not by much, and she guessed that he would have lived through the clan slaughters that occured in Kiri back in the day.

All considered, that probably meant he'd seen some pretty awful events, and she wasn't prying, only wildly speculating. But she imagined that had she been a heavily traumatized Hoshigaki that had survived the most violent era of known history-- especially if she was in some way disgraced-- the guise of a trucker might be preferable for staying hidden but not secluded.

As for his partner, She suspected he knew as much, if not far more than herself. Nezumi seemed to be a bright man, but of his own ties to the Hoshigaki, Nameko was uncertain. He didn't look quite old enough or rough enough to have come from the the Bloody Mist, so it was likely that he'd caught up with Same between then and the last decade. She supposed he could be telling the truth about his family. For a civilian uninvolved with the world of shinobi it was common to start having children quite early. Clan-wise, though, there were also many possibilities of his lineage. His complexion and coloring reminded her of those 'classic beauty' families: The Yuki, the Uchiha, the Hyuga. Her mind rested once more on the bastard son theory. A secret kid floating around, even as a civilian, would be a juicy scandal waiting to happen for any one of those clans, especially the two that were all but extinct. Nezumi was a benign enough presence that he may be unfamiliar with his own heritage, but Nameko knew there was something about the two of them as a pair. Not that she was into snooping. Really.

"Thank you again for the meals and lodging, Nameko-san." Nezumi handed her a small platter to scrub, "I will insist on asking again, though I feel I know the answer--"

She cut him off, "If it's gonna be about how you feel like you gotta repay me, I don't want to hear it sweetheart." She made her tone softer, "I very rarely collect debt on kindness, darlin'."

Same laughed softly through his nose, "This is a fight we aren't going to win, but thank you for at least letting us help with this." He nodded at the bowl in his hands.

"Exactly, I don't take payment for being nice, cause I should be doing that anyways. But if we're both doing things to help each other, its an equal exchange. I've known y'all long enough for you to know that, I hope."

Nezumi stared at the plate Nameko was was scouring with near-violence and nodded absentmindedly as though he only agreed with part of her logic. She considered the men at either side of her to be ones she'd been charged with protecting, in some way. The reasoning behind that didn't make any more than a little sense, she knew. After all, they were closer in age to her than any of her grandchildren, and if her suspicions were correct and they had clan ties, they were surely capable of minding after themselves. Nameko wanted to protect them though, just like she did anyone thrust into situations beyond their control, and given the history of the Great Nations, that likelihood increased exponentially with age. Nameko might not have known Same and Nezumi's exact circumstances, but she'd seen enough second-hand destruction caused by the difficulty of a life lived on guard, and so she didn't need to know the specifics. The men would receive her protection as long as they accepted it. That was the way she did her work.

Itachi made sure to thank the hostess one-to-three more times before they left. Kisame kept it to a classy, "We are indebted to you, ma'am," on his way out the door.The two had different methods of presenting their chosen personas, but one given requirement for relatively simple, especially when it came to their interactions with ninja: Don't make any enemies.

Well, any more, Itachi though wryly, amused at the notion that he had become so close to a ninja clan. The graciousness he was careful to show the Shimizus had its roots in keeping the ruse of his identity alive, but he supposed there were more genuine feelings as well. He still found it pertinent to remind himself when leaving the compound, especially after such kindness, of the dangers that came alongside foolish trust. He may have slept in the guest beds of government agents, he may be contractually obligated to deliver supplies to them, but he could not allow himself to be fully known-- not by the clan, and not by Nameko.

As the two men made their way down the the gradual, rocky slope to near the greenhouse where the truck was parked, however, there was a very small unsettling feeling. A phantom vestige of a memory associated with leaving on a mission, and the words of another woman who always used to wish him well and safe travels before he set foot out the door…

It was gone, though. Nezumi did not have parents. Or a grandmother.

Itachi felt beady eyes upon him and glanced up at Kisame, who seemed uncharacteristically smug as he peered down at the shorter man.

"Yes?" Itachi stared at the ground as they rounded the corner of the greenhouse.

Kisame heaved a dramatic sigh, "You know, friend, you really ought to to ask for a pay raise. Maybe some time off."

Itachi's eyes were on his partner again, "Mm. And why is that?"

A slightly too-sincere shrug, "Well, I mean you're a loyal employee of course, and you never ask for anything extra. You work so hard, and it must be so taxing to be away from your wife and three children." The large sharkish man burst into hearty laughter in spite of himself, "I mean-- you did good in there-- but three daughters?"

Itachi rolled his eyes and unlocked the cab of the truck so his buffoon of a coworker could get in, "Well they are the light of my life, after all. I miss them terribly, really, so if you could stop implying my little angels don't exist-- which they do--" He chastised in a sarcastic deadpan, "Excuse me for trying to formulate a strategic bond with some ninjas who would for sure have our skins if they thought otherwise." He turned the key in the ignition and the truck sputtered to life. Gas tank mostly full, nice.

"As long as we don't oversell it." Kisame added.

Shrugging, Itachi fixed his vision on the dashboard, checking the truck's vitals, "Someone's got to. We cannot all engage in evasive snack time maneuvers with the grandmother."

Itachi's eyes were not his original pair. Nor were they the secondary pair. These he'd received a few months after the last war as a gift from a shady and ill-trained medi-nin who'd offered him a chance to alleviate the incessant pain of living with a ruined pair of secondhand Sharingan. His current eyes were from some civilian; a nameless and willing--he hoped-- donor. Without the use of his formidable kekkei genkai, he'd lost a considerable amount of his recall, particularly when it came to close quarters combat and sensory jutsu. He simply did not have as strong an ability anymore-- which, considering all the difficulty it posed, did make it easier for him to remain hidden and undetected. Itachi could still detect significant shifts in chakra however, and after so many years of experience, one just develops a sixth sense for those sorts of things. That was most likely part of the reason Itachi felt the palpable mood shift that rolled off Kisame in response to his last joke. Another part of it might have been that the man was his friend and knew him better than any other living being. Nevertheless, Itachi had hit a nerve.

"Yeah," Kisame gazed fixedly out the windshield at some point in between the truck and the back wall of the greenhouse, "Well, we can't all be automatically trusted on the basis that we look non-threatening, or that we don't appear to be from a well-known clan." He paused.

"I can't hide from how half the folks I run into are disgusted with me looking like this. Before… I mean, before I could at least own it."

Itachi grimaced internally, "You're right, I shouldn't have been so thoughtless."

The other man shook his head, "It's alright. I know we should be used to it by now, but Nameko and her clan are strangely hospitable. I'm still not accustomed to that being the default when meeting people. Also, you blend in better than I do, and Wakame's parents were asking too many questions for my taste."

"Guess the kid takes after them." Itachi said, "Still, he wouldn't have reason to be suspicious. Do you believe the parents are a danger to us, though?"

Kisame glanced sideways, "Just as much as any other shinobi, probably more so since they can place our faces, and we're in close proximity to the clan. They didn't seem to be searching for information from you though, just making small talk."

Itachi looked at the steering wheel for a brief moment before throwing the truck into reverse. He hooked an arm out the open window to see as he backed up, "Yeah. Well let's hope they don't get too familiar, or too into the idea of being our friends. I don't have the resources to hire a fake family."

"Ugh, the only thing worse than real familial obligation is falsified familial obligation."

Itachi laughed at his partner's remark and shifted the vehicle into drive, "Let's get out of here."

Kisame slapped a large hand on the dashboard in front of him, "I'm up for that. Keep that window open though, this truck reeks of lizard.

The Corvid Couriers truck pulled around the side of the greenhouse and up to the gate of the compound. It was a large, bleached wood structure, heavy with motifs of large-toothed and scaley beasts, and laden with thick kudzu vines. The guard on duty nodden to the truck as it passed slowly through the gate and onto the dirt road that led onto the larger highways of Kiri. Motor vehicles were still most commonly used for transit and transportation, so some of the larger trade cities like Kiri had developed considerable infrastructure to support their booming trade and populations. It made the job of a merchant far more efficient when there were paved roads around a city. The truck swerved onto the Kirigakure Bypass, kicking up a cloud of dust as its tires left the dirt for grey concrete. The skyline of Kiri moved past, and one would have hardly imagined that the same city had once nearly destroyed itself from the inside out. The past no longer suited the thriving metropolis. Tall spires and glass windows choked out the remnants of the squat, cracked stone of just two generations before. The air still held a familiar chill in the early mornings, but it did not carry the the oppressive gloom of the Bloody Mist. Wet breeze misted through the open windows of the cab and blew the two men's hair around, stinging their eyes. As improved as Kiri was, and as successful as it had become, though the men had found a --mostly-- trusted place to stay in the Shimizu compound, it never felt half a good to enter the city as it did to leave.


	5. Family Ties, Discovered Lies

So, here was the thing about Wakame's plan. It was a good plan, he knew that. There really weren't many ways that it could go wrong, when he thought about it, not that he could see at least. The predicament he found himself in currently- nestled in a pile of duffle bags in a large burlap bin, in intense discomfort- was not a fault of the plan, but rather a fault of his own body. He had to pee. Like, really bad.

He guessed that he should have considered this possibility in the early stages of the plan's formulation, but at the time it had seemed like a lesser detail. He'd also assumed that he would be able to hold it until the first stop the truck made, but it felt like it had been hours. Like a lot of hours. Not that he could really tell. Apart from the constant, rattling of the truck and Geta's occasional grumbling, he didn't have a clue how time was passing outside the bin. He hoped the truck had gotten far enough to give him a good start on his journey.

A low sort of bellowing came from Geta, who wasn't helping Wakame's situation by sprawling across his torso. The sound was not loud, exactly, but it resonated in his mind. In fact, the gator's mode of communication hit frequencies below the level of most human hearing, and Wakame, like many members of his family, could perceive these tones. However it was something more felt in his chest and jaw than heard in any case. Geta was impatient, he could tell from the her tone. Probably because the truck was dark and a little drafty, which he knew was not her favorite environment to have to lie still in.

He patted her smooth, leathery side, "Soon, buddy. We gotta wait for the truck to stop."

Another grumble, this one seemed doubtful. Wakame sighed. He and Geta had been partners for years, ever since his father had brought him to the greenhouse, hardly more than a toddler, to see a clutch of eggs laid by his own gator, Ammit. They were just on the verge of hatching, and little Wakame had watched in awe as several babies shoved their way into the world from their oblong shells. This was a rite of passage for any Shimizu clan member who so chose to take it. Some bonded with hatchlings in youth and grew alongside their gators. Others, like his brother Hijiki, chose to take an animal partner later on when they had gotten through the first phase of their training. It was sacred in its own right- allowing a gator to form an unbreakable bond with you, and the tradition linked the animals to the clan and vice versa, multiple generations of beasts and men working for and with one another. Wakame remembered the joyful tears that sprung to his eyes when a very small Geta had padded her way fearlessly across the grassy nest and onto his bare foot. The tiny boy had looked to Ammit, who blinked, watchful of her infant, and rumbled in satisfaction.

Since then he and Geta had been practically inseparable. He cared for and nurtured her, played with her and planned for the day when he would begin to train professionally with Geta, though he'd always taken solace in the fact that they would be partners for the remainder of his life, whether or not he became a shinobi. The bond of the Shimizu and gators was not determined by their career or path in life, but rather by a mutual selection and choice to form a partnership. It was an alliance which spanned across time, distance, and change. He was proud of this legacy, of his responsibility to Geta and their future as shinobi of the Hidden Mist. Getta was like a second sibling to him- though all the good things considered, she was just as difficult as any sibling could be.

He rubbed her head, "Look, Nezumi-sama and Same-sama are gonna have to pee soon too, they can't hold it forever."

If alligators could roll their eyes, Geta would have done so. Instead, she grumbled once more, and if to prove a point, settled her weight directly over Wakame's bladder. He groaned. The drivers had better stop soon.

Nameko had a feeling. Not one of dread, per se, but an itching, nagging at the back of her mind. The restaurant was unusually quiet for early evening. By this time of night it wasn't uncommon for the building to be half-swarming with her staff and family in preparation for the dinner rush. Granny Shimizu's Gator Pit and Grill worked in some amount of chaos most of the time, but she knew the flow well. Early mornings were for family breakfast, and that generally included a handful of her most immediate relatives. When her staff arrived, it was business time from 10 am to 3pm, with staggered breaks for the employees so there were always at least a few hands available in the kitchen, dining room, and register. From 4:30 to 8:00, dinner was served, and after that there was a hour to clean and close. Her staff was an ever-cycling mix of full-time and part-time workers. Some family, some civilian locals, some retired military, but everyone working the restaurant knew that they could expect anywhere from three to seven of Nameko's grandchildren, nieces, and nephews to be causing auditory havoc in the building during the evening hours, playing in the back corners of the dining room or swinging their feet from the barstools as though they aimed to take flight. Tonight wasn't different. There were still peals of laughter ringing from the wood beams of the ceiling, and still the general dull cacophony that came along with hungry mouths, but it seemed that the noise was missing a usual component. She scanned the restaurant over her shoulder as she turned to hand a stack of green-ringed earthenware plates to Hijiki, "Hey, have you seen your brother around?"

The teen shook his head. Hijiki looked only a little silly with his sleek ponytail shoved up under a hair net and suited in a vastly oversized white chef's apron that had belonged to his grandfather.

"I saw him at breakfast, but not since then. I think he took Geta out to practice offshore in the lake?"

"Mm. He said he was going into town to look for a gift today, but he must be back if Geta's gone."

Hijiki shrugged, "Yeah I dunno, I haven't seen her all day, but she wasn't in the greenhouse when I was there earlier." He set the plates on a nearby table and began to place them, three on each side.

"Well Wakame never blows off dinner, and I was expecting him to come help set tables with you tonight, that's all."

The boy's brow furrowed at his granny's remark, making him look somewhat like a caricature of a much older man, "That's weird, he usually shows up for his jobs, even if its just to bug me. Kid doesn't think I set tables right."

Nameko chuckled in reply, " Wakame has many gifts, but table setting is not one of them. Still, when he shows up later, tell him off for me. Maybe make sure he does your share of the dishes."

"Will do." Her grandson huffed lightheartedly as he moved on to another table.

Hours later, Hijiki moved through the marshy grounds at the edge of the forest that backed up to the family compound. It was a popular place for Shimizu ninja to spar and train with their gators, and he knew he was more than likely to find Wakame and Geta out here, aimlessly wandering and allowing themselves to lose track of time.

"Keep an eye out Butsu." He called to his own gator, about a league or so off, whose eyes only blinked in acknowledgement, reflecting eerily in the late evening dimness. Hijiki's similarly reflective eyes returned the sentiment. He could see as well as Butsu in these conditions, just a bit balmy and almost no mist settling in amongst the trees, which was rare for late evening. It should make it easier to find Wakame, but then again his younger brother didn't often make things easy when he didn't want to be found. Kid was a damn hide and seek master when he had his heart set on it. Still, Hijiki was made uneasy by the trek out into the training grounds. The whole place smelled strongly of both Shimizu and alligator, Butsu had let him know as much, but he'd not yet distinguished Wakame or Geta's scent. If the two had trained out here in the last few hours, the evidence should have been clear.

The young man and his four legged partner trudged on, covering the wet earth in search for the missing pair. Hijiki hadn't really been too concerned about his brother's absence until after dinner. Wakame was known for wandering during the day, especially to train, but he never missed dinner, especially when he'd promised Granny he'd help. He was a scatterbrained kid but he wasn't a flake.

Granny had become more and more worried at Wakame's absence, which in turn spiked Hijiki's own anxiety; he hated seeing old people get scared. He'd volunteered to go out and look in the training grounds, tossing in some comment about how he was sure the two were just lost and would be back in no time. Now that he had been searching for well over an hour, he didn't feel so certain. The woods were getting more difficult to navigate by the minute, and Hijiki felt a spark of genuine worry ignite in his chest. Of course this would happen when Mom and Dad were on a mission, if they were searching for Wakame he'd have been found in fifteen minutes.

A guttural sound emanated from near the sludgy ground to his left, where Butsu rose to standing position, legs spattered with vitiligo patches which stood out in the dusk against dark underbrush. His eyes were alight in the growing darkness. Hijiki mimicked the low-frequency noise, but pitched differently to make his response and inquiry.

 _Do you have something?_

Butsu made a clicking grunt which shook the entirety of his seventeen-foot-long form, _Something._

Hijiki's heart skipped a beat as he followed Butsu through the thickening grass, and suppressed a groan as he stepped into a particularly muddy patch and felt chilly water seep into his sock. Up ahead, there was a dimly lit clearing, he could see by the oddly greenish light spilling through some of the taller reeds lining the area. He held back for a moment, but Butsu plodded on ahead, shoving his massive, meaty head into the clearing. He made an exasperated face at his partner's tail. Butsu was nearly sixty years old at this point, and was uncompromising in even his best moments, but Hijiki looked up to him as the more experienced member of their duo. He just wished on occasion that the damn gator would brief him on the plan before he was once again trudging after him into unknown territory.

The clearing opened before him as he moved through the large swatch of tamped-down grass Butsu had left in his wake. It was a place he'd been plenty of times while training in these woods; mossy ground, gnarled oaks and spindly pines. It was useful for rehearsing larger, more explosive moves, and group exercises- when the space was unoccupied.

Tonight, though, the clearing was very much in use. A wave a relief flushed through Hijiki when he recognized the figure moving swiftly in the center of the circle, but was disappointed to see it was not his brother. The wiry person was fast for any age, but Hijiki had established respect for the skill of the older shinobi before him. The man moved with calculated and ruthless power that could only be gained through a long life of hard-won battles. He was not training alongside a gator, but rather sparring against his own water clones, which rose, attacked, and dissipated with the same wave-like motion as the chakra which rippled out from him.

Hijiki flared his own chakra gently, in case his uncle had not yet noticed his and Butsu's presence, though he highly doubted that was the case. Still, it was better to make oneself known than to accidentally sneak up on the old fart.

His uncle turned his head concerningly fast over his shoulder to look at Hijiki and the rest of his slender body followed suit, "My boy! How's my favorite brother's grandson doing on this fine, fine evening?"

"I'm okay, Uncle Sansho."

The old man's reflective eyes crinkled as he knelt down to pat Butsu on the sides of his thick jaws, "And of course I couldn't forget this old comrade!" The alligator made a belching noise, pleased at the attention.

"You two getting in some nighttime training?" Sansho continued to vigorously pet Butsu, as though he were a large dog rather than a massive apex predator.

Hijiki shook his head, "Nah, actually, we're just looking for Wakame and Geta. He skipped out on dinner duty tonight and Granny told me to go kick his ass." That earned him a hearty chuckle from the old man, who clapped him on the back as he stood up.

"Well, I haven't seen him out here tonight, but he's bound to be 'round the ol' homestead somewhere."

Hijiki nodded in agreement, but his uncle's joke fell flat. He had an uneasy feeling about not being able to find his brother. Usually, Wakame made his presence known wherever he went. In fact, it was all he could do sometimes to get a moment's peace from incessant questions and requests to, "Look what I can do!" It just wasn't like him to disappear all day. He didn't want to alert Uncle Sansho to that, though. The man had enough fires to keep at bay with his duties as political head of the clan, and he didn't want to worry him this late in the evening when all it would do it add another stressed family member to the equation.

He was brought out of his thoughts by another clap on the shoulder from Uncle Sansho, "C'mon kid, pop a squat over here." He led Hijiki to a recess in the clearing where a large tree had fallen some years ago. Hijiki grimaced to feel the clammy bark on his butt, but joined his uncle nonetheless. The old man shoved a hand into the pocket of his vest and produced a cigarette and lighter. As he lit it, Sansho's face was illuminated directly for the first time since Hijiki had come into the clearing. In profile, his uncle's face looked similar to how he remembered his grandad's; broad, round nose and high cheekbones. Eyes creased by thousands of laughs. Uncle Sansho was slimmer than Grandad had been though, and he kept a short and scruffy silver beard. The lines in his face had grown deeper since Hijiki was a kid, and these days it was growing more apparent that Sansho had been the older of the two brothers.

"You know your grandad and I," Sansho began, causing Hijiki's ears to prick, "got into so much shit as kids, I'll tell ya." He began laughing at a story he had not yet told, "One time Shichimi and me, we were doin' a chakra exercise just off the coast- must have been for school, now mind you, this was Land of Rivers, where the deltas are. Water gets shallow and they take the kids there to practice water walking and stuff. Anyway. Your grandad and I were out there learning with all the kids, and everyone's just strugglin' up a storm, half were sinking up to their knees and all that, I think at one point I was ankle deep in mud and thought I was finally getting somewhere!" Hijiki smiled and nodded. He'd heard the story before, knew it by heart in fact, but it was a favorite of his.

"And here, Shichimi has planted that one," he gestured in mock accusation to Butsu, who was laying silent in the open clearing, "up the river that morning and told him to meet the class at noon. So ya got all these damn kids trying to stand up on the water, and here comes Butsu- he was almost four feet long at that point and fat as all hell- comes tearing into the water from the river, kicking up a wake and everything. Broke everyone's concentration and flipped 'em all into the water- except your grandad and me, cause we were expecting it." He paused to cough roughly on the smoke from his cigarette, "I'll tell you what, I've never seen a gator so proud."

Hijiki laughed, shaking his head, "You said when you were kids- I remember you pulling stuff like that when I was little. I think Granny's still bitter about how many times she caught you chasing each other around the restaurant with her kitchen knives."

"Oh, yeah I caught several of her sandals in the face over the years for that," Sansho confirmed, "She's never gotta worry about you though, you're too responsible for all that."

Hijiki thought back last night when he'd made Wakame fall face first into the gator pond, "Yeah." He paused, "I kinda have to be though if I'm gonna steal your job someday." Hijiki balled his fists up on his knees as he leaned forward. The joke had triggered a wave of underlying stress that had weighed on him since his own father had declined the opportunity to head the clan after his grandad had died. It wasn't that he didn't want to lead, but the heaviness of that impending responsibility had long-shadowed his perception of how he focused his efforts.

Sansho scoffed, "I'm doin' a _fine_ job, thank you, with Nameko's help, true- but I'm poster man for 'not up to the job' and I'm still coming to work ain't I?" He turned to his great nephew, "You can afford to loosen up there kid, you couldn't possibly do worse."

Hijiki met his uncle's eyes, which betrayed a hint of genuine concern for the boy's confidence, "Uncle Sansho, I just don't know that I'm ready to do all that. Or that I'll ever be?"

Sansho nodded sagely, dragging on his cigarette, "The good news is, ya don't have to be yet. I wasn't when I was a young man, but Shichimi was. Your father wasn't ready a few years back, so I made sure I was. Hijiki," a strong hand settled on his shoulder, "you only have to be ready for what you can handle in this family. But just between us? I know you have it in 'ya, kid."

The teen took in the reassurance. Logically, he knew the clan leadership was determined on a volunteer basis, and that they would respect his decision whether or not he decided to take over from Sansho. But some part of him felt like he had to make up for his dad not accepting the role. He didn't want to feel like he was disappointing the memory of his grandad. Hijiki also knew this wasn't something he needed to worry about quite yet, but since his grandad had passed when he was seven, he tried to preserve his memory in whatever way he could. And he couldn't deny that losing track of Wakame so completely made him feel like he was not as destined to take on a leadership role as Sansho seemed to think.

The two sat in silence, watching Butsu grow sleepy on the damp ground. When Sansho's cigarette had reached its limit, he extinguished it on the log and stood up, stretching his back until it popped loudly.

"Ouch?" Hijiki mused absent-mindedly has he, too, stood.

Sansho continued to stretch his limbs, cracking his joints with abandon, "Nah, it's good for the ol' bones. I'm probably gonna go another half hour or so, you wanna join me?"

Hijiki smiled, "Next time for sure, I'm gonna head back to the Gator Pit. I'm sure Granny's already chewing out Wakame by now."

"Right, you go rescue your brother, y'all have a good night," Sansho said, giving Butsu another hearty slap on his side. The alligator's eyes opened with a grumble and he heaved his thick body up onto his powerful legs.

"You too, Uncle Sansho," He followed the already-moving Butsu through the tall grass on the other side of the clearing as Sansho's water clones materialized once more and the Shimizu clan head started his fight again.

"Ugh _, finally_." Kisame sat tense in his seat, bouncing one leg impatiently as the truck heaved into a parking lot bordering a rather tepid looking pond. It had been an astronomically long leg of the journey- it always was when they left Mist. Two long ferry rides to get out of the islands, and several more bleak hours along densely forested roads, across the peninsula to reach the far eastern border of Waves country. In all honesty, the men probably could have stood to stop before now, but Kisame had rushed them out the door this morning with excuses about getting to this rest stop by nightfall, and Itachi was, quite frankly, going to be stubborn about it.

"You _wanted_ to power through today." He quipped at his partner.

"Fair, but I've gotta piss like a racehorse, and last time we stopped was at that nasty gas station four hours ago."

Itachi shrugged, "Just do what I do. Don't drink anything all day. No pee."

"Oh yeah, that's a great way to pass out while driving on the freeway." Kisame was already unbuckling his seatbelt. Itachi pulled into the long row of parking spaces, closer to the pond than to the rest area building at the other end of the parking lot.

"Haven't done it yet. Grab me a coffee in there."

"Three cream, six sugar?"

"Yup, thanks."

The larger man was already out of the cab before Itachi had fully engaged the break. He watched the receding shape of his partner move towards the building. The simple wooden structure served as the only dedicated rest area on their route from Kiri to the Corvid Couriers distribution center, and the stop's attendant was a gruff, elderly woman who never asked questions. Itachi, despite his stubbornness to make Kisame regret waking him up so early, was grateful to be off the road for a moment. He shut off the truck and revelled in the silence, leaning back against the worn headrest and allowing his eyes to slide closed. They burned slightly, trying to resupply moisture lost over hours staring at the road. His past life shook its head and scolded him for being so careless- to nap in an exposed vehicle was practically inviting enemy operatives to make their move. It was beyond careless to let his guard down like this, and he'd have his own slack to blame if anything happened. His current life- Nezumi's life- shrugged, and allowed Itachi to shift over to rest his exhausted head on the worn seat. Kisame would be a minute, and maybe he could just let himself doze off for a moment. He felt himself grow heavy in the steadily dimming light of early evening. The familiar warmth of the truck cab held him like his own bed, and Itachi allowed sleep to overtake him.

-For only a moment.

He was jolted out of his nap by the sound of something falling in the cargo hold.

Ugh, great. Now he had to go see what had shifted in transit. He hoped it wasn't a mess, cause he really didn't feel like figuring out that dilemma tonight..

Wait. The truck should be empty. They'd unloaded that last cargo at the Shimizu compound, and his bags were in the bins- Maybe-

Another thump from the back of the truck, and Itachi sat upright, very slowly, listening.

 _Footsteps._

Faint, but unmistakable. Someone was walking around in the cargo hold, and Itachi had actually let himself nap. He could get to reprimanding himself later, now he had to deal with this. He felt himself- without any conscious effort on his part- slip into that automatic survivalist mode that he'd lived the majority of his life in. The footsteps were light, but quick, as they moved to where he knew the back door opened. He listened with keen ears as he vaulted silently out the still-open driver's side window, so as to not make unnecessary noise fiddling with the creaky cab door. The back of the truck seemed quiet, and the consideration crossed his mind that whatever was in there was waiting for him to make the first move, poised to attack.

Itachi ran through an ocean of possibilities in a second. He'd been discovered, someone had found out he and Kisame were still alive, and had come to kill them- or worse, capture them to figure out _how._ This was _not_ something he intended to allow. He brushed his fingertips at his thigh, where three kunai were strapped to his leg, concealed by a panel of fabric on his pants. He had not needed to use them for defense in quite a while, but habits do not die that easily when they keep you alive.

There were no signs of damage that he could see as he rounded the back of the truck. No tampering or possible points of entry, unless it was a roof entry, but that would have been very difficult to pull off without either he or Kisame hearing. The door's keyhole and handle looked fine as well. In moments like these, Itachi wished that he'd gotten ahold of another sharingan. Without the eyes, his sensory and tracking ability had vastly deflated, as well as his basic recall.

He huffed quietly as he poised himself to wrench open the heavy door and confront the intruder. Just as he placed the key at the edge of the lock, he could hear it. A rattling noise from the other side, as though something was scrambling for purchase where the door met the floor. Did this idiot not know he was there? At least he had the advantage…

In one fluid motion, Itachi ripped away the panel concealing his weapons and drew one in his left hand, while shoving the key into the lock and heaving up the door with his right. The metal gave a horrendous screech, protesting as the door flew up on it tracks to expose whatever conflict lay on the other side. Itachi gritted his teeth and stilled the shake in his hands- that was new.

He saw the human figure and reacted before he registered the presence of a Kiri forehead protector; it was by sheer reflex and shock that he managed to reign himself in mid-lunge, kunai brandished. His brief flash of killing intent hung heavy in the air.

Wide eyes blinked in the light from the setting sun. Tanned, round cheeks drained of color as they absorbed the sight of the kunai and the murderous look dissipating from the man's face. Itachi's shoulders slumped as a very strange mixture of both relief and intense stress took hold of him. The intruder and- now that he took full stock of the situation- his lizard companion were of no real threat to him in a physical sense, but they posed a massive risk to every other aspect of the sham his life was centered around. Itachi Uchiha and Kisame Hoshigaki, world class criminals and notoriously dead men, and just managed to accidentally kidnap a clan child.

The kid in question raised his palms defensively, eyes still locked on Itachi's fist grasping the kunai. Wakame's voice cracked ridiculously as he spoke, "N-nezumi-sama? I'm really sorry, but I need to go to the bathroom _right now_."


End file.
